Bar Fights
by Wulferious
Summary: Happy St. Patrick's day! A short fanfiction about spending the day at McGinty's for ale and celebrating St. Patrick with the twins. (St. Patrick's Day, 2015)


(A/N: Just a small note here, just as an extra warning, I suppose. This fanfiction about the Boondock Saints, and as I like to write my BDS fanfics, is a polyamourous relationship between you and the MacManus twins, Murphy and Connor. I just can't separate the twins. It's a sin to do that, you know. Beside that; this one has quite a bit of swearing, with a teeny weeny suggestive theme at the end.)

In your life, so far, you've already seen more than enough bar fights. You guessed it came with the job; working with your grandpappy, 'Doc', after your parents went to who-knows-where. You've worked at McGinty's Pub ever since you were a minor, but you've never had an ounce of alcohol in your life. You liked to stay sober, after observing drunk people leave the bar staggering, fighting, macking on someone else, or being just plain dumb, you decided never wanted to end up like that.

Despite your decision, you still worked at the pub. You were amazing at mixing drinks, and you had a special intuition of what patrons were going to order, even before they sat down. You loved it, down at the pub. So much in fact, that you had moved into the speakeasy room just above the bar. Whenever your grandpappy wasn't able to come in, you took over management. Most of the regulars didn't mess with you, whenever you were there by yourself. Just because you were a girl, (and a short one, at that) doesn't mean you couldn't hold your own. Whenever a bar fight started, you were almost always the one that finished it.

~

The day you met Connor and Murphy was one of the best days of your life. Rocco, one of your most frequent visitors and bar fight enthusiast, had dragged two boys about your age into the bar, just about gluing them to the chairs. If you were guessing right about their age, they probably shouldn't be drinking, but what the hey, if Rocco was paying, you didn't care.

"Two generous glasses of that nice Guinness stuff you got. These boys need it," He ordered, sitting himself on the right of the dark haired newcomer.

"Comin' right up, Roc. Say, I've never seen these two 'round here. You know them?" You inquired. Rocco nodded, shoving the darker haired boy's shoulder.

"Uh, hi. M'name's Connor, and the guy Roc just shoved is my twin, Murphy." The light haired one introduced, flashing a polite smile at you. The dark haired twin, Murphy, also smiled at you, but his cheeks were also red with a blush.

"Well, Connor, Murphy. Nice to meet ya. You two look like you're about to take your first sips," You conversed. Both of the brothers nodded, reaching for the glasses filled with the silky drink as you placed them on the counter.

As the years passed, Connor and Murphy started coming by more frequently than Rocco did. Every time, they had always asked for the same glass of Guinness, or a simple shot or two before they headed to their apartment, only stopping by to confide in you, complaining about working at a meat packing plant all day. You had made great friends with the twins, as there was always something to talk about at the bar. Sometimes, you closed up early just so the three of you could head upstairs to play a game of Euchre or Pool. They eventually became well acquainted with Doc, making up little jokes or pranks to catch the old man saying his 'FUCK! ASS!' one liner.

But, what stood out to you the most, is how much you liked watching them in bar fights. Although, at some points, you did have to come out from behind the counter and put your tiny body to business, you did love to see them fight. They worked together, protected one another. This, and everything else, led to you falling in love with them. Not just one; but both of the twins.

~

One particular evening, St. Patrick's day, Murphy and Connor had arrived early to the pub. Sitting down in their usual spots, they looked around the room for you. Doc was there, behind the counter, already preparing their usual Guinness drinks.

"Hey, Doc, where's (y/n)?" Murhpy inquired, tapping his fingers on the wood of the long bar counter.

"She's j-j-j-just in the back." Doc sputtered out, placing the glasses in front of the pair of twins. "I can go c-c-c-call her, if ya want." Connor grinned at the old bartender, whom stared back in confusion.

"I think I can go call on her m'self." Boldly standing, Connor straightened out his jacket and made his way through the small door at the back of the bar, to climb the staircase to your room.

"If you think you're gonna score, you're going to be disappointed!" Murphy called behind him.

Once he arrived at the second door, he rapped his knuckles gently on the wood, stepping back a couple steps so that he wouldn't surprise you by any closeness.

"One moment!" You called, and your lead-footed steps sounded through the wall as you ran towards the door. Connor felt his cheeks grow hot as your beautiful smile grew when you opened the door and saw him.

"Connor!" You exclaimed. Even though you spoke enthusiastically and expected a reply, Connor couldn't peel his eyes from you, or say anything. In celebration of St. Patrick's day, you had donned in a cute shirt that read 'This is my St. Patrick's Day Shirt', a matching skirt, stunning black stockings, and light green shoes.

"Like it?" You inquired after a few moments, still standing at the top of the staircase, in the doorway to your room. Connor stuttered for a moment, breaking out of his trance.

"Yeah... you look great." He commented, to which you giggled shyly.

"Shall we head downstairs?" You asked, moving forward to step down one stair, making your height level to Connor.

"Uh, sure."

When the two of you reached the floor, the place had already filled up with the regulars, celebrating the holiday. Connor returned to his stool next to Murphy and began to trace the edge of his glass as the younger twin whispered in his ear. You, on the other hand, dashed behind the counter, grabbing your serving tray and beginning to make your rounds with everyone's favorite drinks.

Around an hour later, the pub was filled with drunken merriment. The jukebox was running your grandpappy's old songs, barely audible over the laughter and loud conversation. Just as the party reached its max, the door opened once more. Rocco had walked in, planting a good kiss to your cheek as he snatched the last bottle of beer from your tray. He popped open the cap and took a large drink of it, and he walked up to the counter, stopping just behind Murphy. As if he forgot he already had a beer in his hand, Rocco shouted;

"Hey, fuck-ass, get me a beer!" The whole house erupted with a hearty laughter, Murphy reaching backwards to lock his friend in a hug.

As the night lived on, some people began to leave, the sense of responsibility winning over their desire to drink. There was still an essence of joy and laughter at the bar, the music becoming more and more audible as people bid themselves adieu.

When around eight of the regulars were still crowded around the bar, you refilled some shot glasses with some tequila that was on the house. Doc first waved his hand in the air all mystically, and got the boys to calm down, mostly.

"Listen, boys. I've got some very bad news." If the hand waving didn't work, this sentence sure did the trick to quiet down the place. At this point, you could hear a pin drop. Pursing your lips, you felt like you weren't ready to let everyone hear what your grandpappy was going to say.

"We're going to have to close down th-th-th-the bar, (y/n) and I. The Russians are pullin' out businesses all over town. Including this one, FUCK! ASS! And, they're not lettin' me renew my lease."

Everyone there looked down somberly, but Murphy and Connor turned their heads to look at you, saddened by the news. You gave them a disappointed twist of your lip, shaking your head. Rocco then looked up, and took a drag of his cigarette.

"Lemme talk to my boss, man. Maybe he can do something." Roc offered, to which Murphy gave him a slap upside the head. There were small comments and remarks flying across the room. This is when you spoke up.

"Now guys. Don't go 'round tellin' people about this. Grandpappy doesn't want anyone to know. Keep yer traps shut."

"You know what they say, people in glass houses s-s-s-sink ships." Doc added, and small laughter erupted once more.

"Hey, Doc, I gotta buy you a proverb book or somethin'. This mix and match shit's gotta go." Rocco commented, and you finally gave in to an amused giggle. Doc looked between you and the patrons with a confused look, and you finally tipped over the edge with Murphy's addition.

"And... don't cross the street if you can't get outta the kitchen."

As if on the perfect queue, the back entrance door slammed open. You walked to the other side of the bar, watching three large men walk into the room. The laughter died down once more as everyone turned around to observe. Every patron stood, and none of them could match up to the men's heights.

"What th'fuck's this then?" Murphy asked. Putting down your tequila flask, you stood on top of the stool behind the counter, so you could see properly.

"I am Ivan Checkov," the tallest one said, in a heavy Russian accent.

"You will be closing. Now." He tugged at the fingertips of his gloves, pulling them off.

You could almost sense opportunity radiating from Murphy, as he wrapped an arm around Rocco.

"Well, this'ere's McCoy. All you need is to find Spock, and we've got an away team!" He stated, smugly. The patrons began to laugh, although it seemed that this Checkov didn't like what Murphy had said. The man grew serious.

"I am in no mood for game. You two, stay! The rest, go! Go now!" He commanded, waving a hand and gesturing it toward the door.

Hopping down from your stool, you made your way to stand in front of Connor and Murphy. Plastering your fists to your hips, you looked up at the Russian, fuming. To quote your grandpappy, you decided to mix and match.

"Well, why don't ya make like a tree; and get the fuck outta here!" You commanded. You were loud and fierce, for a lady at only 5'2''. There were nods and sounds of agreement. Connor and Murphy both turned around, grabbing a beer in one hand and their Guinness in the other.

"C'mon, it's St. Patty's day. You don't gotta be hardasses." Connor stated.

"Yeah, everyone's Irish tonight. Why don't you pull up a stool and have a drink with us?" Murphy added, civilly offering the beer to the Russians.

With a hard thrust of his hand, Checkov knocked the beer from Murphy's hand, smashing the bottle on the floor. Inside, you snapped.

"This is no game! You won't go, we will make you go." Checkov stated, pointing at Connor and Murphy. Behind you, you felt their smirks. You were fuming, and they knew it. The twins pointed down at you, but it was too late for Checkov to notice that you were still there.

This time, you had _started_ the bar fight by landing a powerful kick to where the sun never shines. When the large man doubled over in pain, you grabbed his head and slammed it down towards the floor. Thus, the bar broke out into all-out _war_. Connor and Murphy followed suit, landing punches to the two other guys that were there. The next thing you knew, everyone was beating up on the mobsters with you, Murphy, and Connor at the helm, Doc behind the counter, flinching when anything broke, and throwing air punches towards the fight.

By the time that Murphy had actually broken two wine bottles atop Chekov's head, the other two had fled the bar. In a matter of seconds, there Checkov was, tied to the bar counter, you twirling a bottle of whiskey in your palm. With a laugh, you poured it over the man's buttocks, Connor lighting a match; throwing it on top of the alcohol, lighting the fabric of Checkov's pants on fire. Connor, Murphy, and the other patrons toasted whatever alcohol they had left to you, laughing as Checkov yelled and thrashed about.

"To (y/n)! The toughest out of all of us!" Reveling in your victory, you licked your lips. After the small fire had been put out by Doc, the patrons helped the old bartender in untying the Russian, in order to 'escort' him from the premises. Taking this peak of opportunity, you grabbed the twins' wrists.

"C'mon." You offered, a mischievous smile taking over your features. "It's St. Patty's day... and you know what they say. Kiss me, we're Irish."

With that, you pulled both brothers up to your room, locking the door and throwing the key to who knows where, once the boys were inside with you.


End file.
